cough syrup
by HeartOfCoal
Summary: 'Sherlock can feel the storm in his aching limbs.' here are some cuddles and stuff.


By the time John got home from surgery, it had begun to snow– fitful, timid little flakes that collected on his face before he unlocked the door. The doctor kicked off his shoes and stood for a moment in the empty flat.

"Right, then," he muttered to himself; he then began stocking the fire.

It seemed that he was alone in the flat. A note from the detective confirmed that he was indeed at the station with Lestrade. Sighing, John glanced outside the window, watching the snow turn to rain. It wasn't cold enough to make it snow, but it was cold enough to make your fingers numb and make the wind bite at you like an angry hound. John settled into a chair by the fire, stretching his feet out towards the flame to warm his toes. He nestled into his sweater; warm.

Sherlock arrived after the streetlights had flickered on. He silently crept up the stairs, acutely aware of the pain building in the back of his skull. Shivering– damn, it was cold. His coat collar was turned up to protect his neck in the way that John had said made him look 'mysterious'. Sherlock chuckled silently at that and slipped through the door, grateful for the blast of warm air that greeted him.

From the chair by the fire, John turned to him and gave his friend a tight smile.

"You were gone late," he remarked absently, watching Sherlock shed his shoes.

"So it would seem."

"Why are you all wet?"

"I was outside."

"Well, obviously," John said, shaking his head at his friends damp curls that stuck to his forehead.

Sherlock shivered again, dropping his damp coat over the back a chair and scooting it over to the fire to dry. He sneezed, catching his face in his long fingers.

"Bless your soul," John said, chuckling.

"Too late for that, I would say," he replied softly, wondering into the kitchen; he fancied a cup of tea to warm him.

John made a noise of agreement and went back to watching the telly. As he waited for the water to boil, Sherlock slouched into his room and discarded his cold, somewhat-damp clothes for a pair of soft pajama bottoms. He pulled on a sweater on, too, because he was still shivering like mad. His throat felt hoarse and scratchy; he ached all over.

He strolled back into the kitchen just at the kettle was beginning its screeching– the noise shot through Sherlock's head like a bullet. He cringed and pulled it off the stove, pouring it over the teabag in the bottom of the cup.

John looked up when he heard Sherlock riffling through the cupboards.

"Looking for something?"

"Honey."

"We're out, I think."

Sherlock sighed and walked over to the couch, curling up on the corner with a steaming mug. He picked a book off of the coffee table and absently flicked through it. John watched him pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh, swallowing hard before glancing at his too-hot-to-drink tea.

"Are you alright?" John asked tentatively.

"Fine, thank you," Sherlock mumbles, taking small sips from his burning tea. It scalds his tongue so he puts it down and lays his head against the arm of the couch.

"How long were you outside in the snow… or rain?"

"A while."

John turns so that he's fully facing Sherlock and gives him a once over; his skin is pale, hair still damp and messy, and he looks awfully small curled up on the couch in his baggy pajamas. He pushes himself out of the chair and kneels down in front of the couch, placing a hand against Sherlock's slender face.

Of course, Sherlock jerks away from his touch, but John sighs.

"You're warm."

"Stress raises body temperature," he counters, closing his eyes again, because the lights hurt.

"So does being sick."

"Not sick."

"Not listening," John mutters.

He goes and digs through the medicine cabinet until he finds a small bottle of aspirin.

"How many aspirin do you usually take?" John calls, because he knows for a fact that everyone is different when it comes to these things.

"I don't take aspirin," Sherlock replies, poking his head through the door. "Really, I'm fine. See you in the morning," he calls before he shuts his door to his bedroom.

John sighs and makes his way back to the living room, watching the rain come down harder on the windowpane. In the distance, thunder booms and lightning blooms across the dark sky. In his room, Sherlock could feel the storm in his aching limbs before he crawled into bed.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Hazily, Sherlock recalls waking up and ripping his sweater off, dumping it on the floor; suddenly, he's overwhelmingly hot. His dreams are alarmingly vivid– its difficult to understand what they're about, or if they're even dreams at all.

It's nearing midnight when John grunts and peels himself from the chair, where he had fallen asleep. Groggily, he begins to make his way towards his bedroom. That's when he hears the groaning. He tilts his head to the side, listening a second more and realizing that it's not groaning so much as it is screaming.

The hallway is dark, and John nearly falls on the way to the other man's room. He uses his hands to guide him, and comes to a halt in front of Sherlock's door. For a moment he deliberates if maybe he should just let him be, because for s second Sherlock is quiet; breathing somewhat peacefully, at least. John gives the door a small push; it's open, and it swings on the hinges silently.

John doesn't need to turn on the light to see Sherlock thrashing.

"Sherlock," he says dully– really doesn't want to deal with this right now.

He continues to groan, hands gripping at the sheets. Sherlock's head falls to one side, dark curls falling over his eyes and he makes an almost whining noise. Again, John says his name, but to no avail.

"Damn you," he says, though he doesn't mean it; not really.

He walks over to the bed and says his name again, louder– he jumps when Sherlock talks, but takes only a second to realize that it's not directed towards John.

"I said I was _out,_" Sherlock moaned, his arm flying up in front of his face.

John reached out and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's thin wrist. He flinched when Sherlock screamed and arched his back.

"It's not here! Never even…"

"Sherlock. Hey, wake up," John coxes.

He can feel the heat rolling off of the dark haired man's body– fever dreams. Vivid and painful; John knew from experience. Reaching out, he placed his palm on Sherlock's smooth face and tried to lure him out of sleep by talking to him. Sherlock tried to shake John off but John was stronger in that moment, because Sherlock was asleep and obviously terrified– the thought threw John through a loop.

Pity clogged John's throat. He withdrew his hand from Sherlock's burning face and took a deep breath before yelling Sherlock's name; he hoped that he didn't wake Ms. Hudson.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, gasping, his first instinct was to jump out of bed– but when he sat up he found himself wrapped in John's embrace. His surroundings were a blur of color and he sat, shivering, because the sweat had dried on his skin. The blankets felt like ice around him. In the first few seconds, he's aware that Sherlock is trying to speak, but his words are frantic and don't make any sense– his body shakes with the sudden absence of adrenaline.

"It's okay," John soothed, feeling Sherlock shake beneath his grip.

Unsurely, Sherlock drew up his arms and wound them around John's sturdy back. He concentrated on his breathing and tried to block out his shaking or the bounding in his head. Although he was positive that he was awake, now, the dream still clung to him like a wet shirt. He wasn't aware that he was crying until he tasted the bitterness of his own tears– Sherlock pulled away, blushing and dizzy with fever.

"So– I'm sorry," he stammered, suddenly lost for words.

"You're alright," John replied, brushing the hair from his face. He bit his lip at the temperature. "You're really warm, Sherlock," he said gently.

Sherlock nodded against his palm, all at once dreadfully tired. He wavered; vision slipping, and John caught him as he slumped forward. John felt Sherlock's lips collide with his collarbone and he placed a hand on the back of his head.

"Sherlock?" he asked, alarmed.

He shuddered, getting a grip on himself before trying to pull away. John kept a firm hold on his friend, though his heart began to pound when his hands fell into John's lap. Sherlock felt himself slipping and cursed himself for everything all at once– he cursed Lestrade for asking him to stay outside in this weather, and he cursed himself for being to prideful to tell the DI that he felt ill and that he should be going home. He even cursed the weather man for not warning him that it was going to rain, or snow.

"What was the dream about?" John asked softly; he wanted to measure how coherent Sherlock was.

Sherlock mumbled something against John's shoulder, and all he heard was what resembled 'I'm tired'.

"Then sleep," John said quietly, letting go of Sherlock.

The man drew his legs to his chest, biting his lip and nodding. He drew a quivering breath and didn't bother to tell John that he couldn't bare to sleep– too many dreams. Too many illogical things that shouldn't scare him but do anyway. He felt their grasp on him, pulling him under what felt like a frozen lake; the water flooding his lungs and freezing him with his eyes still wide open and frozen solid. The thought of dying like that made his stomach turn, and he lay down, curled on his side. John let his hand drop onto Sherlock's pounding temple and he noted how frail he looked in the moonlight.

Outside, lightning stoke and illuminated the entire room. It was then that John saw that for once, Sherlock was looking at him in such a way that invited him to be close to him. Maybe it was the fever that overtook him, or maybe it was the nightmares, or maybe it was the fact that John's hand on his face felt calming and safe and _good,_ but Sherlock's words came out strong, if not a bit slurred with nighttime.

"Will you… will you stay?"

"With you?" John asked, his hand still on Sherlock.

He nodded– John wordlessly slid under the covers with Sherlock, allowing him to burrow into his chest. The weight of Sherlock was surprisingly heavy, but not in a way that made John feel uncomfortable. He had the sudden urge to wrap his arms around Sherlock, and when he gave an involuntary shiver, John did just that.

"Goodnight," John whispered.

"G'night, John. T'nks," Sherlock murmured, his breath collecting in pools just beneath John's breastbone.


End file.
